


The Hungry Beast: Uprising

by Sar_Kalu



Series: The Hungry Beast [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Torture, Cashmere needs a hug, DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EASILY SICKENED OVER THINGS YOU READ, Eventual Katniss Everdeen & Harkin Black platonic besties, F/F, F/M, Finnick & Harkin BFFs 5ever, Finnick needs a hug, Forced Healing, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Graphic Violence, Harkin Black is a stone cold bastard, Harkin Black needs a Hug, Haymitch needs a hug, I'm serious here, M/M, Multi, Murder, THIS SHITS ABOUT TO GET MESSY, Torture, War, War Crimes, all of district one needs a hug lets be honest, capitol bullshit on steroids, child abuse implied/detailed/referenced, eventual, graphic sexual scenes, there will be:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-05 20:05:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: In a world where Effie Snow doesn't kill Harkin Black in the 51st Hunger Games and he survives... this is what happens next.





	1. [The Reaping, District One, 74 A.D.D]

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome,
> 
> Yes I know this was meant to be here a while back, however, unavoidable life things happened; you know how it is. Forgive me; however, you're here now and I hope this lives up to your expectations.
> 
> THAT SAID! Under 15's, you have no business here, leave. 
> 
> My tags are no joke, I am very very serious about the levels of violence and sex that will appear in this fic. If you are in any way squeamish or easily sickened, this is NOT THE FIC FOR YOU!
> 
> Consider yourself warned. I will not have people flaming my work again because they didn't read the warning labels. 
> 
> Please enjoy the ride, keep all hands and feet in the vehicle at all times, and please, for the pleasure of other guests and the author, keep all unnecessarily negative feedback to yourself. I would be delighted to hear from anyone who wants to shout, yell and or commiserate. It's going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.

 

 _District One never changes_ , Harkin thinks as he watched the ever eager losers stepped forwards as if they weren’t nominating to die but were expecting to be given the worlds best job; because they were lied to, all their lives. Never really told what happens when the Capitol sinks its claws and fangs into them. Though some were more than able to guess. Not everyone had their eyes blinkered to the world around them. Most though, most accepted their wealth, their status as the Capitol favourites without question. Most were delighted to cheer for the deaths of their children. It sickened Harkin, but it was hardly like he could do anything about it. The Capitol escort, Raizen Vervain, is dressed in muted plum this year, and his hair has been streaked with bloody red and gold paint. _It’s not the worst combination he’s worn_ , Harkin reflects in mild amusement, _but it’s up there_.

 

“Welcome!” Raizen greets them with bright efficacious cheer; as though they are children and he their schoolmaster. Raizen’s acting is thin though, he’s always been poor at pretending as if _their_ children aren’t about to be slaughter all in the name of revenge for an Uprising no one here, let alone the generations within recent memory, participated in. “Welcome!” He repeats, gloriously proud of his nominated District which is by far one of the richest and easiest to manage. _Luxury makes fools of us all_ , Harkin snorts internally, the oft repeated mantra within closed company of District One victors echoing like a death knell in his mind, his movement out the corner of Raizen’s eye has the Reaper suddenly nervous and avoiding his form. “Welcome to the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!”

 

Gloss and Cashmere roll their eyes in unison bold under the bright lights of the Capitol cameras, they’re scanning the group of trainees for the year, a barely-there sneer on both their faces at the collection huddled before them, unimpressed with what they had to work with this year. Raizen is swift to run through the customary greeting/run-down of information for the District, flattered and pleased as the gathering of Sheeple clap and cheer enthusiastically at his words. After 74 years, District One has become particularly good at pretending. They had to be; luxury came with a price and that price was the eyes of the Capitol on them 24/7.

 

Raizen has come to the most important segment of the day and he’s practically vibrating in excitement, his hands shuffling through his cards with distinct pleasure as he slides them into his pocket and opens his arms wide, grinning brightly, flashing teeth that are silvery in the sunlight. It sends the Victors behind him into a series of muted winces, unwilling to show any kind of discomfort in front of millions of witnesses. Snow would consider it an insult and none of them are desirous of pissing of the one man who could kill them all. They are District One Careers, not suicidal.

 

“Do we have any volunteers?” Raizen asks of the cluster of tributes before him, hoping that this year will be like the last and those prior. District One almost never has their escort dip their hand into the bowl of names. They’ve worked out a system where children are nominated prior to the Reaping and trained within an inch of their lives. Most of the children trained are orphans or their parents owe the Mayor of the District some kind of debt. Others, like Harkin, had been Victor offspring; those were the ones that looked nothing like the District genotype. Tributes without the green eyes and blonde hair often had outside influence on their parentage. Harkin had no idea who his father was; nor had he ever bothered to find out.

 

Raizen isn’t disappointed as a young woman with golden hair, emerald green eyes, and delicate, fine boned features that show the clear selective breeding that is practiced in One steps forwards. As she saunters up the stairs and accepts Raizen’s congratulations, she smiles like a hungry shark and smooths her white dress over her knees as if she doesn’t already know she’s perfect and beautiful; dressed to kill, as Cashmere would say with a sly smile and a wink.

 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Raizen licks his lips hungrily as he eyes the teenager and Harkin knows that should this girl win she will undoubtably be like Finnick, Gloss and Cashmere, and be sold to the highest bidder. Like he, himself is. “What is your name?” The Reaper asks the young girl in front of him; Harkin briefly thinks that she can’t be more than fifteen and closes his eyes tightly for a moment, queasy to the stomach at the thought.

 

“Glimmer,” she introduces herself, winking at Raizen like she isn’t disgusted and hateful of him. “Glimmer Triskele.”

 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Glimmer,” Raizen say honestly, his eyes heating up and Cashmere leans against her brother, murmuring that “ _Raizen looks like a dog in heat”_. She’s not too quiet in her commentary and Harkin barks a laugh, smirking at the brother/sister duo who return his dangerous grin warily, they know his reputation best of all; and that he’s often given special privileges within the Capitol. No one ever wants to know what that means for Harkin though. They prefer to see him as a wolf, never as the lamb.

 

Harkin has something of a reputation, even amongst his fellow Victors for being the fastest to deal with his Games. So fast that not even the Game Makers had been able to slow him. Six days, that was all it had taken he and his District partner to winnow their way through the Tributes before battling it out in a gory and bloody battle to the death that had nearly killed him. Should have killed him. He had made history that year and Snow had been furious. Harkin was paying for it still, thirteen years after the ‘event’. Only this time, not in blood and with his eventual death, but with his body and his eventual children’s bodies.

 

The male tribute has volunteered in the time it takes for him to build himself up into a quiet and ferocious fury, his green eyes, characteristic of his district and the only marker that shows he belongs here with them, blaze beneath his shaggy black hair and narrow as the boy introduces himself as Marvel Gamine. It takes little time for the Tributes to farewell their families, longer than he, but then, he had no family. Not really. And then he was standing beside Gloss, Cashmere, Glimmer and Marvel as they await Raizen to arrive at the train station.

 

Marvel and Glimmer have already pledged each other their aid, boasting their talents as they jockey for first position amongst their Mentors and avoiding Harkin like the plague. Even they, children that they are, know that Harkin Black is not to be trifled with. They avoid his eyes and shift beneath his gaze, transforming from puppy-like children to wary predators that know that they are in the presence of a greater, crueler predator. His story is legend amongst District One and they are rightfully proud of him, but no less wary.

 

Harkin lounges on the couches, pretending that he’s not listening to Gloss snap and snarl at Marvel for being an arrogant little shit who knows next to nothing of the Hunger Games, despite being somewhat Schooled; and Cashmere sneers at Glimmer, who’s alternatively preening and smirking beneath Harkin’s gaze and fearfully avoiding him, torn between desire and the knowledge that he is the most dangerous person on this train. Raizen watches and gloats, watching the playbacks of the other Districts, his sudden exclamation of surprise and shock drawing Harkin’s bored gaze which sharpens in interest at the sight of District Twelve gaining a volunteer.

 

“Play it back,” Harkin orders, standing and making his way over to the vid-screen, his green eyes intent. “Now!” He snaps when Raizen stops too long, dazed at his close presence.

 

The incident plays out like prime-time drama. A girl, no older than twelve or thirteen is called up and then another girl, who must be sixteen, maybe seventeen interrupts, screaming that she Volunteers. Harkin watches the way the dark haired girl moves, noting the wariness in her gaze and the shifting of her feet as the blonde girl leaps into her arms, screaming in desperate fear and denial. Harkin turns a smirk onto Cashmere, who nods jerkily, her own pale green eyes wide with surprise and genuine emotive recognition of the girls protective instinct.

 

“Looks like we have a genuine player,” Harkin muses, slouching back on the couch, crossing his long legs before him. He’s lean and wiry quite unlike Gloss, who sits beside him, still staring at Harkin as if the older man is still his Mentor. Which he is, in a way, and he always will be. Terrifying though Harkin can be.

 

“Oh please,” Glimmer scoffs, rolling her eyes and checking her nails. “Like the little bint can keep up with us,” she gestures between herself and Marvel, who’s nervous but watching the girl from Twelve closely.

 

“You have a lot of work to to with this one,” Harkin drawls to Cashmere who nods in agreement, both Victors ignoring the Tribute’s high pitched wailing in denial that she’s perfect, she’s ready, she’s amazing at killing _other children look at me I’m gorgeous_ and Harkin ignores her utterly. Until they win the games, none of the Mentors or Victors from One and Two will treat Glimmer like she is a real human being. They will treat her as fresh meat only, a t-bone about to be fed to the dogs. It was a survival thing; each and every year they drag two kids to the Capitol and more often than not, returned with less than one, if not fewer. District One and Two don’t win every game, sometimes they lose. Getting emotional and attached to their tributes would only put both tributes at risk.

 

Cashmere sighs in annoyance, already well pissed with the girl. “Tell me about it,” she grumbles, gracefully collapsing into the seat beside the dark haired man and leaning against him. Cashmere smells of the rich perfumes and lotions that their district is famous for making. She spends an inordinate amount of time ensuring that she’s clean and well prepped for anything and everything. They all do.

 

Harkin smirks and throws an arm about his two younger Victors, shaking them lightly. “Now, now, kids, chin up. Maybe next year,” Glimmer is obviously pissed at his assessment but Marvel drags her from the room before she can speak, clearly understanding their position with the three Victors much better than she. Harkin internally tips his hat at the kid, he’s smart, he’ll last; but both tributes lack the survival instinct that the girl from Twelve has. Harkin stares at the soundless playback the announcers are showing over and over, and he can see in her eyes something akin to his own. A feralness. Katniss Everdeen is as much a wolf as he; if not more.

 

Cashmere leant in closer to Harkin’s neck, her breath gentle and sweet and he slowly tensed, knowing that she was about to pass on information that would likely make him extremely angry. “I didn’t catch,” her voice is breathy with fear, her eyes wide. Her voice is soft enough that even the more sensitive audio only cameras wouldn’t have picked up on her words. Harkin clenches his jaw in understanding and closes his eyes, relief and sorrow passing over him like clouds.

 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes in reply, a weight lifting from his shoulders as though what she hadn’t just told him didn’t spell her potential death.

 

Catching is what the people from District One call pregnancy amongst Victor’s; because it was like a disease. Catch yourself with a baby just once and then you’ll never leave the Breeding Hall ever again. Sentenced to spend the rest of your life having children with the other Victor’s, whether from your or another’s District. Baby factories, that was what the female Victor’s from One, Two and Four were. Unless of course, you weren’t desirable enough. Sadly for Cashmere, she _was_ desirable and while she had ‘caught’ once before, a training accident had terminated the baby before the Capitol had caught wind of it. It was the only reason why she was still mentoring despite Gossamer being beyond breeding age and able to Mentor once more.

 

“I’m not,” Cashmere finally replies, trembling in Harkin’s arms and deliberately ignoring her brother who was pretending not to listen despite his tense and fearful posture telling her that he was. It was a delicate balance of pretending things weren’t real or as bad as they seemed. It was how they survived.

 

Gloss finally blows a sharp breath from between his lips, narrowing his eyes as Raizen drives their Tributes back into the compartment with them. “Looks like we have to get back to business.”

 

“Looks like,” Harkin agrees easily, standing so quickly that he nearly knocks Cashmere to the floor, and ignoring the calf-eyes that Glimmer sends him, he slinks from the compartment with all the grace of a big cat and into his bedroom. Undoubtably Cashmere would visit him sometime tonight, for soothing words and even a tussle in the sack to remind him that he was more than the Capitols play thing. He appreciates this, even though he doesn’t believe it. It’s been thirteen years. Harkin doesn’t believe a lot of things anymore.


	2. [Tribute Tower, Capitol City, 74 A.D.D]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I'd like to remind people that this fic contains graphic sex and violence; this chapter alone has references to violence and masturbation. 
> 
> And bromance, coz who doesn't adore Finnick Odair?

Harkin Black is so gloriously and amazingly and incredibly fucking pissed to high heaven. Not, you know, in an angry or a rage way or anything. Nope, he is _soo_ sloshed right now that he is seeing double of everything. It’s nice to be able to cut loose, Harkin wouldn’t be able to in a few days; once the tributes are settled and the Mentors kick everything over from personalised individual to group work? that’s when his, and their, real work begins. Which is why Harkin is so drunk right now that he’s staggering and barely coherent. Right now he doesn’t have to function. Right now he _doesn’t_ _want_ to function.

 

Ignorance is bliss; and Harkin would like to remain ignorant of how much longer he has until he’s a Capitol whore again.

 

Tribute Tower, where tributes and mentors gather both pre- and post-game, is President Snow’s effigy to himself and his brutal cunning. Seventy floors high, it’s a shining beacon for everyone around that the Tributes and the Districts are so completely and utterly owned by the Capitol that there’s a tower, specifically built to house they and their children on death row. A building that any one of them could walk out of. A building that was so beautifully furnished that Snow didn’t need bars on the windows or locked doors to keep them there. Tributes acted like they were special for staying there. Like they and their _sacrifice_ meant something.

 

Harkin glares around the foyer, the polished glass and shining chrome lines of the windows and decorating accents is broken only by a single potted plant in the corner. It’s an ugly, squat little plant, more an afterthought than an attempt at interior decorating. As though the decorator was gifted the plant by another person and rather than keep it for themselves, they stuck it in a brass pot and hid it in a corner of a building no citizen of Capitol city would ever come: Tribute tower.

 

Movement to Harkin’s left has the District One mentor spinning around, green eyes narrowing beneath dark brows. The other man lifts a hand in greeting, his posture relaxed and indifferent to Harkin’s threatening body language. Although, Harkin will admit that Finnick Odair is one of the few people who would be more than able to take him on in a fair fight; not that Harkin fights fair if given the choice. Fighting fair is what gets you killed and Harkin well prefers to keep on living. “Finnick,” Harkin greets the golden haired District Four Mentor in a faux-idle tone of voice, “fancy seeing you here.”

 

“As if this isn’t a yearly occurrence by now,” Finnick drawls in reply.

 

The two men stare at each other, as if they are a pair of wolves sizing up a competitor, before Harkin, who’s impulsiveness is at an all time high with all the white liquor he’s imbibed, breaks out into a bright, white toothed grin. The grin is all the invitation Finnick needs and he all but throws himself at Harkin, pulling him into a tight hug, rocking them both back and forth. Harkin’s arms are strong and tight about Finnick’s waist and he moves with Finnick’s rocking delight. Eventually they break away from each other, pounding each others shoulders and exchanging delighted slaps as they reaffirm their long bond of tight friendship.

 

“It has been too long, my friend,” Finnick says as he loops an arm about Harkin’s shoulder and guides him towards the elevators that carry victors and tributes between their designated floors and the gyms. Finnick is dressed in his typical loose linen pants, a gold silk shirt, and open toed sandals that lace up his ankles. Finnick was often compared to a young Poseidon and he now played off on that comparison for his Capitol lovers; a play off that payed off well for him.

 

Harkin nods his agreement, his head more than a little fuzzy in the too-bright lights of the tower. “It has,” Harkin agrees, “how’s Annie?”

 

“Well enough,” Finnick sighs, looking discomforted by Harkin’s line of questioning, though he still helps him into the elevator when the doors open. “She still suffers the night terrors and the healers think she might never really recover.”

 

Harkin blinks slowly at that, remembering the tiny red-headed girl from Four who had been driven insane after witnessing her District partner being beheaded. Annie hadn’t been the only one distraught over that; Finnick, who’d only been mentoring full time at that point for two of the Hunger Games, had been inconsolable. “Do any of us?” Harkin finds himself asking almost philosophically, leaning heavily into Finnick as his hand finds its way into his pocket and the little scraps of paper he has in there. “Do any of us,” Harkin repeats almost angrily, though anger is often the least of his emotions when he thinks of all that has happened to he, Finnick, Gloss, and Cashmere, “ever, really recover?”

 

Finnick is looking down at him, probably with dark sorrowful eyes that always make him look like a kicked dog, Harkin can tell, even though he hasn’t looked up, because of the way Finnick’s chest muscles move as he does. Finnick is Harkin’s rock in the way Harkin is a rock for others with his unceasing ability to appear like an absolute murderous dick. Most Victors fear Harkin, they’d made their minds up about him long before they’d met him. They often did the same about Finnick as well. It had been Harkin who had found the sixteen year old Odair, sobbing in the pool, his first square of silken paper sitting on the edge beside him, the black type font glaring up at the petrified boy like a bruise. Finnick knows what it is like to be beyond anger and fury; after all, Finnick is his blond haired twin in all the ways that matter.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harkin says as they reach District One’s floor and exit the elevator into the hallway. Finnick looks at Harkin again, this time in curiosity. Harkin draws out his hand from his pocket and hands over a slip of white silk paper, a trident embossed on the front in the place of a name. That was another reason the other Victors loathed Harkin; he was their point of contact with President Snow. When you weren’t allowed to hate the message; hating the messenger was the only path you had left.

 

Finnick takes the paper without expression, “my first for the season,” he says with a faintly bitter smile. “I’d almost missed this.”

 

Harkin’s eyes bore into the other man knowingly, “no, you haven’t,” Harkin says flatly.

 

Finnick’s smile twists, becoming ugly, before he smooths it away and pretends he’s light and happy with the world. “No,” he admits softly enough that not even the best cameras will pick up his words, “I haven’t.” Finnick rubs the slip of paper between his fingers before opening it, reading the name inside. “Patriss Barrenhall,” Finnick says, his face whitening to the colour of chalk.

 

Harkin recognises the name; the man who had paid to “deflower” Finnick Odair just before his sixteenth birthday. It had bankrupted him, but apparently not for long. “I’m-“

 

“Don’t,” Finnick tells Harkin, “I know; it’s not your fault.”

 

Harkin nods his head and draws himself upright. “I should go.”

 

“As should I,” Finnick says, turning his head to look at the closed doors of the elevator before returning to smile at Harkin. “Tomorrow then?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Harkin agrees; and as Finnick presses the button to open the elevator doors and steps in side, Harkin calls: “and Finnick?”

 

Finnick pauses and holds a hand against the doors that attempt to shut, “yes?”

 

“The girl from Twelve,” Harkin asks, his brows furrowing and his body seeming to sway forwards in his interest, “what do you know about her?”

 

Finnick cocks an eyebrow in curiosity, “nothing,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “but I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

 

Harkin nods, “do that,” he says before lifting a hand in farewell, “later.”

 

Finnick’s reply was cut of as the elevator doors slid shut, carrying him up three levels to where District Four had their floor. Harkin turns to where his room is, the dark of level One is shattered as he steps further into the room. Lights flicker on and all he can see is white and silver: white carpets, white walls, white gossamer curtains, silver cutlery, silver frames for bland pictures, silver light fittings, and bright, white light flooding the entire space, making it that much more blinding.

 

Harkin’s room is no different, but here he has control over the window wall, and within moments the soft song of birds fills the air and wending its way at the bottom of the screen is a tumbling forest river. Harkin spends a moment staring at the enormous trees with their red and brown bark, and the occasional flit of a bird just out of view; this is the closest to peace that Harkin knows, has known since he became a Victor. This, and spending time with Finnick.

 

The bathroom is off to the left and decorated in complete conjunction to the outside rooms. The floors are a dark slate while the walls are lighter again; though the harshness of the lights and the silver fittings remain the same. Harkin strips of his blood red silk shirt and his black linen pants, staring down at his body which he keeps fit out of preference and necessity. During his first few years, before his new reality had set in, Harkin had indulged in the sweetest meats, the choicest treats; but no longer. Such things now represented his time here in the Capitol and Harkin had returned to the everyday basic meals that he’d had during his time at the school. High lean protein meals with little in the way fats, starches, and sugars. A sweet treat these days was either one of Finnick’s sugar cubes or a bowl of seedless white grapes.

 

A bowl of which would be waiting for him at breakfast, along with the compliments of the woman he had entertained earlier.

 

Harkin runs long, strong fingers down his side, checking to see if any of Dahlia’s whip marks have broken his skin; because if they have, well, Harkin has to report it to President Snow, who disapproves of his property being “overly damaged”, and then he would have to be healed by Capitol healers, and come up with yet another training lie which might hurt the prospects of his Districts tributes. It is quite the fine line he walks. Only three people have the Presidents favour enough to do with Harkin as they pleased; and Harkin dearly prays every single day that he might never meet them again.

 

“Shit,” Harkin breathes, finding a small knick between his shoulder blades. It is small and has barely bled at all, but a cut was a cut and Harkin would have to do as he was bid. Likely Snow knows already, there are cameras everywhere within the Tower.

 

Harkin steps into the shower and immediately, perfectly hot water jets down his head and shoulders, leaching the tension from his back. Bracing himself against the slate walls, Harkin lets out a long groan of deep pleasure. He’s hamming it up, but Harkin also knows how much these videos sell among the common people who can’t afford to buy a night with him. Finnick’s told him of the secrets that his lovers tell him, that the common people are lied to, they have no idea that none of the footage is nonconsensual; Harkin personally believes that the common people rarely ask too many questions about where they get their Inner Lives of Victors and Tributes videos from. Only the youngest of the Tributes weren’t sold, Panem had laws about that sort of thing, but fourteen and over, you were fair game; and people payed insane amounts of money for access to the various feeds.

 

Harkin knows what’s expected of him. This feed is free advertising for Snow; but Harkin also knows how to play an audience. He knows that the run of water down the slope of his back would get people hot, he knows that when he lathers up his short hair, that there will be people zooming in on his shoulders, his arse, his bulging arms; and Harkin knows when as he scrubs down his body, to do it in a way that highlights his assets. Harkin’s deliberately slow as he soaps down his chest, running fingers around his nipples, before sliding his hands down his abs and belly; tensing in a way that pops the muscles that he’s spent years carving into stone at the gym. Then there’s a hand around his half-hard cock and if Harkin shuts his eyes he can pretend he’s not in the Capitol but with Cashmere or someone else, and he gives himself two rough pumps with a calloused hand before letting himself go scrubbing down his legs, making sure to stick his arse up and let the water of his shower run over his back and between the globes of his cheeks. Once he’s as clean as he can be after such a thorough scrub, Harkin twists himself until his back is braced against the slate walls and bows his body slightly with his feetplanted shoulder width apart before getting to the main part of the show.

 

Presented this way, Harkin can show off the lean, strong lines of his body without obstructing what his audience really wants to see. Once more he wraps a hand around himself and starts of slow and gentle, his eyes shut and head lolling back against the wall, most of his weight supported in his heels and his shoulders. Imagining that there is no audience and that he’s doing this for himself, Harkin speeds up his motions, he’s fully hard now and his cock is hot and heavy in his hand, the callouses on his palm and fingers catching on the sensitive head and Harkin can feel pre-cum begin to dribble over his fingers. As his orgasm builds, Harkin can’t help but slide down the wall until his backs flat against the wall and his legs are spread wide in a crouch, his right hand furiously stripping his cock, the other pinching and rolling his nipples before sliding down to fondle his balls as they draw tight and heavy against his body. Harkin reaches the edge hard and fast and he hovers on the brink for a single shining moment before he plunges over and warmth washes over him in waves. Harkin continues to fist himself until he’s oversensitive and aching. With a blissed out smile on his face, Harkin washes his cum off his chest and belly with more soap and hosing down the shower stall.

 

From there it’s a short trip to his bed, exhaustion tugging at his bones. Harkin falls in face first, utterly unconcerned that he’s buck arse nude to yet more cameras that will record him as he sleeps. Harkin’s used to feeling like an animal at a zoo.

 

Harkin's last thought, before he falls asleep, is what Finnick will overturn in his investigation of the girl from Twelve… and why he’s so curious in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the review and kudos. I really appreciate your patience in my updating things slowly. Some of the OG readers of this fic will notice differences, please blame that on me being a good 6 years older than when I first wrote this and that I've edited great swathes of texts and outright deleted other pieces.
> 
> Have a great day, all; please leave Kudos if you can, and review if you can be fucked. ;D
> 
> Also, if you're interested, anyone wanting to heckle me for more chapters (or preferably give feedback more personably than commenting below) can find me here: [on tumblr](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
